


Reinventing the Worm

by wordybirdy



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-16
Updated: 2011-12-16
Packaged: 2017-10-27 10:10:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/294588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordybirdy/pseuds/wordybirdy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when one coughing Consulting Detective is confined to bed, on Doctor's orders?</p><p>THIS happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reinventing the Worm

“My dear fellow, I am afraid that I really must insist upon it.”

I reached out to the mantel to remove my friend's Persian slipper from its hook, and the three or four stuffed pouches of tobacco resting upon the shelf above it. Holmes made an unsuccessful grab for them.

“Watson, no,” he wailed, “not my tobacco.”

“I am taking it away on a purely temporary basis,” I said, “until you are feeling quite well again. You have the most dreadful cough, which is only being aggravated by the vast amounts of this potently awful mixture which you insist on ploughing your way through. No more, Holmes; I am sorry.”

“It is not fair,” said my friend, between great liquid hacks. “You know very well what I am like without my tobacco.” He looked yearningly towards the sitting-room door. “I shall just go out and buy some more.”

“No, you will not. I shall lock you in your room,” I warned him. “Now get back into bed. It is too cold to be prancing around with a high temperature, such as you are doing.”

Holmes allowed me to steer him in the direction of his bedroom. He tolerated my turning back the covers, and pushing him between them. He sat up against the pillows, and glared.

“Shall I tuck you in?” I offered. He nodded, mutely. I busied myself with the blankets, then sat down upon the chair close beside. I smiled at my friend. “I shall give you your medicine in a few minutes,” I said.

Holmes grimaced and thrust out his tongue. “Yuck,” said he. “Don't want it.”

“Would you like one of your books to read?”

He shook his head.

“Do you need to sleep?”

“No.”

“Are you going to sulk all day now?”

Holmes examined his fingernails. “It is extremely likely,” said he. Then: “I want my pipe.”

“You can have your pipe,” I told him. “You are just not allowed any tobacco to go with it.”

He let out the most dramatic of sighs and burrowed down into the bed until all that remained visible was above his nose-line. He coughed unhappily to himself.

“I am just going downstairs to speak with Mrs. Hudson,” I told him. “I am taking your tobacco with me, and I have hidden my own, so do not think that you can pull any tricks while I am gone, Holmes. I shall not be long.”

If there had been a small projectile to hand, then I have no doubt he would have hurled it my way as I opened the bedroom door to leave, for his grumbling chunter grew all the louder as I headed away and down the stairs to pay a visit to our landlady. Mrs. Hudson's living quarters were small but exceedingly cosy; brightly lit to thwart the afternoon gloom, and with a fire crackling brightly in the hearth. The good lady herself was in her rocking chair, busy with her embroidery. She smiled up at me as I entered the room, and beckoned me to come sit with her by the warmth.

“You look quite done in, Doctor,” said she, all care and concern. “Is Mr. Holmes causing you trouble today?”

“His cold is rather worse,” I admitted, “and accordingly, so is his temper. I have confiscated his tobacco; he is furious about it.” I started to laugh. Mrs. Hudson gently joined in with my mirth.

“Oh dear,” she said, “oh dear me. Is there anything I can do? I shall prepare a little chicken soup for later on, he will enjoy that.”

“He is frustrated and bored,” I said. “He will not read, or sleep, and I am now in his bad favour, so he does not wish to talk. What do you suggest?”

“Ah,” said our landlady, nodding her head. “Mr. Holmes needs to take his mind away from his tobacco and his humour. I have just the thing for that.”

She rose out of her chair, and shuffled across to a small wicker basket which sat beneath the sideboard. She rummaged a few moments before producing her prize, which she handed to me with a wink.

“Give this to him,” she said, “it has an instruction paper with it.”

“Oh, thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” I said, “thank you so very, very much. Holmes will be so grateful.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“WHAT in the name of all sanity is this?”

Holmes was holding the mysterious wooden object between right index finger and thumb, reluctant to bring it very much closer to him than arm's length.

“I don't know,” I replied, “but Mrs. Hudson said it should amuse you.”

Holmes scowled. “Does it look as though I am amused?” he complained. “What IS it, Watson?” He examined it again, a little closer this time. “It's hollow and it has four pegs at one end,” he said. “Is it for trapping spiders?”

“I very much doubt it,” I said. “Let me take a look at the instruction paper. There is a bag here, too, with something in it, which I suppose you must use with the... thing.” I passed it to him. I read the first line of the paper. “It is a... um. Ah, Holmes, I fear that it might be a knitting spool?”

My friend had dug into the bag and drawn out several balls of cheerfully coloured wool, and a small, hooked wooden needle. He looked up slowly and fixed me with a death glare.

“Wool,” said he, darkly, rather stating the obvious.

“Yes,” I said. “It is very kind of Mrs. Hudson to lend you her spool, isn't it, Holmes?”

The glare intensified. I shifted uncomfortably.

“I am 'Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective',” he said, his eyes flashing, “ _not_ 'Sherlock Holmes, Knitting Maestro'. And anyway, gentlemen are not supposed to knit. I have that on good authority.”

“You are unwell, and out of your mind with boredom,” I replied. “Anything is better than sitting here looking at these four walls.” I squinted again at the sheet of paper. “This device looks rather interesting, Holmes. Once the wool is threaded onto the pegs, um, whatever you do with it then, well, it produces a long woollen tube from its other extremity.”

“But I don't want a long woollen tube,” said Holmes.

“Don't be disagreeable,” I said. “It says here that you can make woollen place-mats and small rugs from the tubing. A rug! Just think of that!”

“I am thinking of it, Watson,” Holmes replied. “And I am already nauseous.”

He gave way to a sudden raucous bout of coughing, then lay back against his pillows, the knitting spool flung to one side on the bed, forgotten, or no doubt so he hoped. I picked it up and examined it closely, comparing it with the diagrams on the sheet. Holmes watched me curiously from the corner of one eye. I selected a bright ball of yellow wool, and felt around for the end of the yarn. I fed a length into the spool, and began to wind a round of loops onto the pegs. I paused, frowning. I looked at the sheet of paper. “Now what?” I asked myself. I heard Holmes snort, but I ignored the taunt; I was determined. I brought the yarn across the back of the first looped peg, then picking up the wooden hook, tugged the bottom loop up and over. I had made the first stitch.

“Hah!” I said, my face ablaze with victory.

Holmes looked at me. He looked at the spool. “What did you do?” he asked, curious.

“I made a stitch!” I said. “Watch. I'll make another one.”

I proceeded to do so, winding the yarn around the next peg of the four, then looping up and over. Holmes leaned forward.

“Let me look at that,” he said.

I relinquished the spool reluctantly. “Don't mess it up,” I warned him. I guided my friend's fingers with the yarn and hook. With a little perseverance, Holmes managed to turn over a loop.

“HEE!” he chuckled, happily. “I didn't mess it up, did I, Watson?”

“No, you did not,” I said, admiringly, “you did it very well, Holmes. Do a couple of rounds of them.”

Carefully, painstakingly, Holmes worked two rounds of stitches on the knitting spool. His tongue poked out with concentration. He inspected the middle of the spool, and showed it to me in delight.

“It is making a spider's web,” he said. “What happens now?”

“I imagine that you carry on going around and around, and the web will eventually grow into a tube,” I said.

“I want to see that happen,” said Holmes. “So I will continue with it for a little while.”

He set back to work, his long fingers flashing with yellow yarn and hook. He accepted a spoonful of rather foul-tasting medicine without murmur, and seemed happily enough occupied that I felt I might return to our sitting-room to catch up with the newspaper. I had read through the political pages, and was just about to begin on the theatre column when I heard a loud shout from the bedroom.

“Watson!”

I raced through to my friend. “What? What is it, Holmes? Are you unwell?”

“No, look!” He displayed the spool, triumphant. He tugged at the blunt yellow nub emerging from its wooden nether regions. “Look!”

“Did you really knit all that in that short time?” I asked, in wonder.

Holmes nodded, gleeful. “Yes,” said he. Then: “I am creating...” – and here he paused, for dramatic effect – “... a _worm_.”

“A worm?”

“Yes. Now do go away and leave me to it, Watson. You are hovering quite terribly. I may need your help to load up a new ball of wool at some point, however.”

“How long is the worm going to be?” I asked, dazed.

Holmes merely shrugged, still busily occupied with winding and looping yarn.

I left him to it.

Late afternoon, I strolled through to visit my friend with a hot cup of tea and a biscuit. I was considerably surprised to see him still working away. The tube by now was quite long and coiled neatly upon the bed. Holmes looked up at me and smiled.

“Watson, you are just in time,” said he. “Worm needs more wool.”

“I think that should be simple enough,” I replied. “Just keep a few inches of your yellow yarn free, and tie a small knot to the beginning of your new ball of wool.”

Holmes rummaged in his bag. “I am going to use the green ball next,” he said.

I sat down beside him, and watched him hook and loop for a minute.

“Why don't you make a nice place-mat?” I suggested. “For a flower vase, or a bowl to sit upon?”

Holmes shook his head. “No,” he said.

The next morning, early, I carried through a tray of toast, eggs and coffee, and greeted my friend as I set it down beside the bed, before moving to the window to pull the curtains open wide. I turned back around, and opened my mouth to speak. I tripped over my words; I shut my jaw. I gawked.

“Holmes,” I said, “did you get _any_ sleep at all last night?”

For the woollen tube had grown very extensively, now tumbling from its coil down to the bedroom rug, where it heaped in a mess of red, green, blue, white and yellow. Holmes glanced at me proudly, as he sipped from his coffee cup.

“A little,” he said. “Look at Worm.” He pointed. “I need more wool,” he added, thoughtfully, patting the much depleted bag.

“It is all very nice, but what are you actually hoping to achieve with this?” I asked my friend.

Holmes looked at me witheringly. He did not bother to respond. Perhaps even he was unsure. I began to worry if Mrs. Hudson might place the cost of the wool upon our next month's rent. I briefly wondered if she might be potentially amenable to a 30ft multi-coloured woollen Worm as part payment.

“Eat your breakfast,” I told him, “and I shall see about procuring more wool for you. Your cough seems much improved this morning, Holmes.”

“Yes, I am feeling more myself,” said he, nibbling around his eggs. “I might dress and join you in the sitting-room later this morning, if you would allow it.”

“Very well,” I agreed, “as long as you are sure that you are well enough. I will fetch my thermometer.”

I collected Holmes's breakfast tray and empty dishes from the rug, and headed from the bedroom to return to Mrs. Hudson. I had reached the bottom of the stairs when I heard the anguished howl from above. I dropped the tray in startlement, and hastened up towards my friend, barely noticing the unravelled woollen string that had followed close behind me.

Holmes was halfway out of bed when I dashed through.

“Worm got snagged up on the tray,” he squeaked, indignantly. “You hauled him downstairs with you, what have you done with the rest of him?”

Together, we followed the yarn trail. At the door to the sitting-room the unravelling began in earnest; by the bottom of the stair it was but a taut, lone thread ensnared within a sharp splinter of breakfast tray.

“I am deeply sorry, Holmes,” I said, “but I do appear to have somewhat maimed your little friend.”

“This is no laughing matter,” said Holmes. “You know, Watson, I have long regarded your sense of humour as suspect.”

He picked the yarn out from the tray and retreated back upstairs, winding as he went. I followed behind, trying my best not to chuckle.

“You can salvage most of it, I think,” I said. “You can tie the end off here.” I pointed to the final length of red tubing.

“I suppose that I can,” said Holmes, “but I rather miss the yellow, all the same.” He sat down on the bed, and piled the remnant of the tubing on his side table. “Watson,” he added warningly, “I would ask that you not tell anyone as to how I have been whiling my time away these last hours. Especially not Lestrade. And _especially_ not Gregson. And oh, for the love of merciful heaven, especially not Mycroft.”

“I promise,” I said.

“And I want my tobacco back,” said he, pouting. “It is the very least you can do for me by way of an apology.”

“I understand,” I told him. “Should we have a batch of new business cards printed up for you now, my dear fellow?”

“You are not remotely funny, Watson,” said Holmes. “Not remotely funny, at all.”


End file.
